


From the Machine

by beetle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, And a Fighting Chance, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Boners, Awkward Flirting, Binge Drinking, Boys Kissing, Buchanan Blarney, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Coming Out, Death-iversary, Deus Ex Machina, First Kiss, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, Hangover, Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Making Out, Meet-Cute, One-Sided James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers - Freeform, Orphans, Past Character Death, Post-Steve Rogers' Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sarah Rogers is Love, Self-Acceptance, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Sexuality Crisis, Wilson Wholesomeness, WinterFalcon - Freeform, and Sam wilson, past bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 23:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12069249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: James Barnes is nineteen (almost twenty) and wasting his life before he’s even really lived it.Enter a most unexpectedDeus ex Machina.





	From the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Past major character death (pre-Serum Steve Rogers is several years dead, at the age of fifteen). Implied alcoholism and underage drinking. Mentions of homophobia (internalized and externalized).

James Barnes is nineteen (almost twenty) and wasting his life before he’s even really lived it.

 

Or at least so his dead best friend’s Ma claims when she’s kind enough—and he’s _pathetic_ enough after a night of drinking and what she calls “tom-catting”—to provide him with the sort of big, greasy, somehow rectifying breakfast his body needs and doesn’t get more mornings than it does.

 

And this particular morning—three months or so since his _last_ great, black-out booze-binge, and despite his roiling-gross stomach and throbbing skull—James is, as ever, hungry as a horse. Before he can even manage to lever his stinging, burning eyes open, he can smell all the fixin’s of a Sarah Rogers-special: scrambled eggs, sausage, French toast (because she knows James hates pancakes and waffles, a thing for which Steve used to give him endless shit from the time they were six), and her transcendent home fries.

 

So, even with his body engaging in all kinds of potential shenanigans and rebellion, James smiles, slow and lazy—the _Buchanan_ Smirk, which gets him laid with a regularity that’s still astonishing and bemusing—stretches his complaining body in Sarah’s large, old, but still comfy-as-fuck living room sofa, and opens his eyes in a wary squint.

 

And bless her kind heart, Sarah closed the drapes so that the room isn’t flooded with sunlight, merely ambiently lit with it. Just enough to create a dreamy blur of cheery-gold brilliance below James’s compromised vision, and charcoal-smudge shadows directly at level with and above it.

 

With a cavernous yawn and a rasping hum, James opens his eyes wider—then gasps out a startled squawk, bolting upright _far_ faster than he should and goggling at the stranger who’s seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

 

Amused, _pretty_ , wide-dark eyes stare right back, curious and unafraid.

 

“ _He’s awake!_ ” the young man—kid—stranger—whatever—yells over his shoulder mercilessly loud, but without taking his eyes off James. And James, for his part, can’t look away from the kid, even as he winces and rubs his right temple.

 

Because this kid is _ridiculously_ handsome as well as wholesome-looking, with a startlingly open-hearted, welcoming grin—which includes a gap between his two front teeth that makes James’s already upset stomach even more confused and his breath catch suddenly—and fine, symmetrical features. His skin is the perfect, delicious color of the sort of dark chocolate you only bake with, except James suspects that far from bitter, _this_ gorgeous, smooth skin is probably sweeter than sugar. Would probably melt on the tongue like cotton candy. . . .

 

The kid’s dark, expressive brows lift in question, and James flushes deeply, realizing he’s been caught-out staring. He means to look away—really, he does—or at least scowl, or something, so those bright, dark eyes buy a clue and am-scray off his tired, pallid, probably-scruffy face. But seconds, at least fifty million of them, pass as they take each other’s measure. The kid’s gaze is still amused, yes, but concerned, too. Kind and solicitous in a way James never sees from anyone, anymore, except for Sarah Rogers.

 

“Did I . . . did I pass out in the wrong house again?” James mumbles blearily, shaking his head just a bit, in hopes of clearing it. His mouth tastes like death, and he can smell both his breath and himself, and neither one is a field of perfumed violets. He winces and finally manages to look away from the kid’s warm, sympathetic gaze. “If I did, I’m, uh . . . sorry. Again.”

 

“ _Again_?” The kid sounds incredulous and yep, still amused. James flushes deeper, relieved that he’s too lethargic and stiff to fidget. He has a rep to maintain, after all, and fidgeting is not a part of it. Even if the only one to witness it is some too-brave, too-pretty piece of jailbait with the most stroke-able skin James’s ever laid eyes on. “Wow, you’re really livin’ _la vida loca_ , huh, James?”

 

James blinks and finds himself goggling up at the kid again, suspiciously, this time. He notices that despite being in what’s clearly jammies—a worn, gray t-shirt with a U.S. Air Force logo, a pair of loose, drawstring plaid pants, and no socks or shoes—the kid seems . . . _ready_ , somehow. Prepared and alert. He’s leanly muscled, bordering on wiry, but solid-looking. _Tough_ -looking. His shoulders, though not as broad as James’s, seem nonetheless capable and strong in ways that James’s will probably never be.

 

“How, uh . . . how’d you know my name? Who _are_ you? Uh . . . I didn’t, uh . . . try anything . . . skeevy with you, after I blacked-out, did I? Sometimes, I get . . . crazy when I’m wasted.” James mumbles, blanching then flushing again, his eyes darting around and confirming his initial impression that yes, he _is_ in Sarah Rogers’s neat, but homey living room, regardless of this strange boy’s presence.

 

“Uh . . . nah, dude. No skeeviness. But should I feel insulted that there _wasn’t_?” the kid asks in his low, smooth voice. James shivers as it pours over him like honey, then wraps around him like a blanket in some intangible way. He finds it within himself to meet the boy’s pretty-kind eyes again, and that amused game-face falters for the first time. Just a bit, to let out startlement and wide-eyed uncertainty that makes James feel steadier, yet less steady than ever, at the same time. He has to stifle a shiver and a moan under that gaze, and though he wants to look away, he doesn’t. Isn’t even sure he could.

 

“Wow,” the kid finally exhales, his unlined brow furrowing a little and his grin turning into a small, crooked-friendly smile that makes James’s stomach twist even more, and his heart try to climb into his throat. “Sarah’s old photos kinda don’t do you justice. Like, _at all_.”

 

A smile, wry, but genuine, claims James’s face, too. “Yeah, well . . . puberty wasn’t my most photogenic phase.”

 

The kid snorts, the twitching at the corners of his distracting mouth heralding the return of that grin. “Agreed. But then, no one’s is. Though, _you_ seem to have pulled out of that nose-dive with flying colors, however. I guess that’s not surprising considering all the, uh, _advantages_ puberty had to work with.”

 

James smirks slow and pleased as the kid’s cataloguing gaze sweeps over him with unhidden appreciation, lingering at his shoulders, his chest, and his thighs. Then, it darts back up to his eyes without even a slight shuttering of that frank admiration.

 

“ _Damn_ ,” the kid concludes, floored and wondering, and James laughs, even though it makes his head and stomach protest. It’s the first real laugh he’s had in a while and it feels . . . _good. So_ good that for once, he doesn’t let that nitpicky, disapproving, guilting voice—it sounds exactly like his mother—interrogate him about why he’s leveling the patented, skirt-lifting Buchanan Smirk on another guy.

 

“Mary and _Joseph_ , kid,” he sputters—and blushes—around chuckles and snorts as dorky as any he’d shared with Steve, once upon forever-ago. They, too, feel so very good. Like stepping into a warm, bright house after a cold, dark night spent outside. “Who _are_ you?”

 

The kid chuckles, too, a slow blink drawing attention to thick, dark lashes that fan around those amazing eyes in a way that makes James’s laughter cut off as if his throat had been cut. The cessation of his amusement is immediately followed by a faint-but-there, intensifying, tell-tale prickle south of the border that he’s an old hand at tamping down . . . even when he doesn’t want to and _especially_ when he should.

 

But, still hungover and slightly trashed, it’s a job of work at the moment. The pretty piece of jailbait giving him the eye is _not_ making it any easier.

 

“The name’s Sam. Sam Wilson,” the kid says, holding out his hand. Then withdrawing it a minute and more later, when all James does is stare at it like it’s a giant tarantula. But before he can even register the downcast, confused look on the kid’s face, James is reaching out to grab that cool, dry hand at the last second, clutching, then clasping it in his own damp-gross-warm one. That’s good for a return of the kid’s— _Sam Wilson’s_ —big, gorgeous grin.

 

It’s like sunrise, that grin, only better since, in spite of its brightness, it’s not killing James’s eyes.

 

“Pleased to, um, meet you, Sam. I’m James Buchanan Barnes,” he adds after another minute has passed with neither of them actually _shaking_ hands, merely holding them. And the only thing more distracting than the hot-cold-electric tingle of this continued physical contact, is the way those eyes stare at James. Stare _into_ him, innocent and wise, curious and understanding. Without judgment, but with compassion.

 

And with no small helping of keen _interest_ , too. In more than one sense of the word.

 

“Yeah, James. I know. Sarah’s talked about you a lot. Shows me old pictures of you while she feeds me lasagna and apple cobbler.”

 

James’s brows lift gently. “’S’at so? Damn, some people’ll sit through _anything_ for some free lasagna and the best cobbler on this side of the Atlantic,” he notes dryly, and Sam grins and maybe even blushes, his gaze dropping self-deprecatingly.

 

“Well, uh. Even in the throes of gawky adolescence, you’re not exactly a, uh, chore to look at, James Barnes,” he mumbles gruffly, biting that plush, tempting lower lip.

 

James’s down-south prickle has surpassed tingle and is now a pile of banked embers that’s being slowly stirred to hot, urgent life.

 

“You sayin’ you like to look at me?” he asks, his voice dropping into a flirty, hungry register that it _really_ shouldn’t, and for _many_ reasons.

 

Those dark eyes meet James’s, hesitant, but still honest and brave. “At the very least, yeah. I mean, for the moment, _looking_ is . . . _good_. It’ll do.”

 

“Well, _that’s_ a pity,” James drawls, letting his own gaze drift down and up Sam’s body, lingering more places than it doesn’t. And openly, too. James’s hungover brain is screaming at him and demanding in his mother’s voice what he thinks he’s doing. For once, he's _all_ about ignoring the shit out of it. But then his eyes meet Sam’s again, and that earnest stare is so direct and expectant—so _pure_ —that James feels it like a dash of ice-cold water to the face and . . . other places. His gaze immediately falters and he blanches, freeing his hand from contact that he instantly misses. “I mean, uh. . . .”

 

“Might be I’m interested in more than just looking . . . rewarding though it is and has been,” Sam continues with endearing reluctance and hopefulness. “I mean, um. Well . . . _damn_ , I dunno _what_ I mean, James. I’m off my game and clearly _not_ prepared for _this much gorgeous_ this early in the morning.”

 

James’s mouth drops open in a gobstruck gape and he blinks. A lot. Then huffs, glancing at the bright-yellow sunlight easing in under Sarah’s heavy drapes. “You and me, both. I mean, uh, that’s . . . um . . . wait—what time _is it_ , anyway?”

 

“Eh, almost eleven, last I checked. But time is an illusion, anyway. Lunch-time _doubly_ so.” Sam shrugs dismissively, eyebrows wiggling like he wants to laugh, even as that small pre-grin twitches his lush lips. “My hyperbolic flattery, however, is valid and sincere.”

 

“Oh.” It’s all James has by way of reply to that. For a couple minutes. He just sits and fidgets under that steady gaze, and lets his empty stomach roil and his fuzzy head throb, as he stares down at Sam’s long, bony feet and their dancer-delicate arches. The burn that was previously just south of the border has spread outward, and is lingering under most of James’s skin. He’s pretty certain that he’s just one, even _ambiguously_ suggestive action on Sam’s part from raising wood—the only reason he hadn’t _woken up_ hard is because of ten hours of blackout drinking the night before—that his skinny jeans _will not_ hide, and that _will_ embarrass them both.

 

“Look, I—I’m still pretty thrashed and brain-dead, after last night, and _you’re_ . . . I shouldn’t have said . . . a _lot_ of what I’ve just said. Obviously,” James begins in stilted apology, stammering and guilty. Mortified. But Sam tilts his head with genuine curiosity

 

“ _Obviously_? Why obviously?” he asks, blinking those pretty eyes with their pretty lashes. James groans under his breath and aims his attention at the sneaky, under-drapes sunlight. It kind of hurts his eyes a bit, but maybe that discomfort counts as atonement, of some kind.

 

Though, probably not.

 

“Because . . . because you’re . . . and _I’m_ . . . look, I don’t usually, uh, flirt with guys—”

 

“Well, _that’s_ a pity,” Sam serves right back to James, who blushes deeper than ever.

 

“And I definitely don’t flirt with _underage_ guys,” James finishes, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his voice casual and non-judgmental. Even though the voice in his _head_ —the one that’d sounded like his mother for years even _before_ she finally threw him out of her house the morning of his eighteenth birthday—is drowning out the pounding of his hangover.

 

“The age of consent in New York State is seventeen. I’ve checked. And _I’ll_ be _eighteen_ in December. Just Eff-Why-Eye,” Sam informs him, shrugging again. And James . . . does not do the math. Doing the math would mean he’s considering Things he should very much _not_ be considering, and. . . .

 

He _does not_ do the math. He absolutely refuses.

 

Then . . . he sort of does the math. _Sort of_. He’s in the middle of counting-up from June 28 th—no, 29th—to December whatever, when Sam shifts, then closes the distance between them, sitting lightly next to James. Close enough to touch, but far enough that they aren’t.

 

“Why . . . why do you even _know_ the consent laws for New York State?” James demands, shivering and trying not to list toward Sam’s warmth. Toward the promise of strength and solidity, and smooth, baker’s chocolate skin.

 

“What? I should know the consent laws for _California_ , instead? Or Louisiana? Bora Bora? Rangoon?” Sam snorts. “Anyway, don’t try to change the subject, Barnes.”

 

“I’m not!” James lies defensively, hanging his head and running a still-gross hand over his product-and-sleep messy hair. It’s getting longer up top than he usually keeps it. The kind of _emo/metrosexual_ look that James hadn’t been above bullying guys for during the second half of his patchy high school career. “I’m just . . . fuck, when _I_ was your age—” Sam snorts again, incredulous and mocking, and James flushes, but goes on grimly “—when I was seventeen, I wasn’t even sure what the legal age was for fuckin’ _voting_ , let alone . . . anyway, it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t even be _talking_ about this stuff with a kid.”

 

“I am _not_ a kid,” Sam says, still good-natured, but a little huffy, too. James bends a crooked, charming smirk his way, and is both gratified and uneasy when Sam’s eyes go wide and poleaxed, and he bites his lip again, all innocent, untried yearning.

 

“Yeah, you are,” James says, and it comes out frustrated, wistful, and sad. And maybe a little angry. He looks away from Sam’s instantly kind gaze, his jaw tight with keeping in anger and confusion that are _not_ Sam’s fault. The _last_ thing James wants to do is heap the massive chips on his shoulders onto Sam’s back.

 

But when Sam’s cool, gentle hand settles lightly on his own, then a bit more firmly, James doesn’t pull away. He merely sighs, and supposes that this, too, is simply another way in which he’s selfish and weak.

 

“Is this . . . is this okay?” Sam asks, small and hopeful. James shivers and laughs. It sounds more like an elderly, exhausted groan.

 

“No,” he replies miserably, his voice tight and creaking. “It’s really not. Nothing is.”

 

After a few moments, Sam starts to move his hand away. But he doesn’t get far before James has turned his own hand palm-up—snake-quick and desperate for the kindness of companionable contact for its own sake—and captures Sam’s fingers. The color contrast between their hands is striking and mesmerizing, and James can’t look away. Can only watch, helpless and horrified and _happy_ , as their fingers shuffle and jostle and link together. Like puzzle-pieces or links in a chain.

 

“You don’t even know me,” James finally tells Sam, in preparation to look away and pull away and _get away_.

 

“Not yet, no, but . . . something tells me I really want to,” Sam says quietly, solemnly. This time, James is the one to snort.

 

“I’m not gay,” he lies. _Probably_ lies. And not for the first time. Though, at this point, he doesn’t even know for sure _what_ the truth is. He isn’t sure he wants to. “I don’t . . . with guys. Not with guys.”

 

“Congratulations. Where do you wanna hold the award-ceremony: the Waldorf or the Ritz?”

 

James barks a startled laugh that Sam joins him in, squeezing their fingers together tighter.

 

“Look, I’m not asking you _be gay_ with me, or even be gay _by yourself_. But you seem like someone I’d like to know better in whatever capacity works,” he says, even and calm. So mature and unoffended, that _James_ feels like the real kid of the two of them, and a shitty, bratty one, at that. “I’m kinda hurtin’ for friends, these days—I’ve actually just got the one . . . weird guy named Riley Underdahl—and Sarah’s been talking you up for a while, now. She says that . . . that Steve was always in your corner and you were always in his, from the time you two were three. That you visited him whenever he had to stay in the hospital and _never_ shied away no matter how sick he got. That you were there with him right up to the end, holding his hand and making him laugh.”

 

When James blinks up at Sam with throbbing, wet, defenseless eyes, Sam frowns and scoots closer. He’s warm and solid and _right_ , as expected and in a way James hasn’t experienced since he and Steve used to sleep back-to-back during sleepovers. Back when they’d thought all the monsters gibbered and leered and lived under the bed, as opposed to walking around in daylight and wearing smiling, human faces.

 

“Sarah says you’ve been lost for the past four years. That when Steve . . . when he passed away, all your happiness and hope and heart went with him.” Sam sighs and reaches over slowly with his free hand, until he’s brushing his thumb across James’s wet right cheek. Then his left, when James makes no move to stop him.

 

“But she _also_ says that you’re waiting. Hoping for someone to find you. Maybe take you by the hand and lead you back to a place that can be home.” Biting his lip again, Sam smiles. “I’m not saying _I’m_ the man to lead that safari, but . . . I’ve got a _really_ good sense of direction and I _never_ get lost. Also, I always remember to bring maps.”

 

James blinks and laughs, even as more tears fall, only to get brushed away by Sam. The gesture is so kind and caring and _necessary_ , James growls—small, feral, and all wounded-wary instinct—and leans away just enough that he can’t feel the easy warmth of Sam’s fingers any longer.

 

“ _You don’t know me_ ,” he tells Sam again, stern, steely, a little mean, and deeply sad, as he holds that open-hearted gaze. But Sam simply smiles, beatific, and like every sun in every solar system, rising at once. Just to _take him in_ on any level is agonizing, intense, and cleansing.

 

“Nope! Don’t know you from Adam! But Sarah _and_ Steve Rogers vouch for you—consider you _family_. And that’s good enough to be going on with, for me. I can _always_ do with some awesome friends. Whether or not they wanna _be gay_ with me,” he adds sardonically, chucking James’s chin before letting his hand fall away completely. James barks another laugh, quiet and waterlogged.

 

“How do you even know Sarah?” he asks, instead of saying what he _really_ wants to say. Then he looks down and away, arming a little snot from under his nose. He for once doesn’t give a single shit about the sleeve or any other part of the shiny, _expensive_ cobalt-blue button down that matches his eyes.

 

“The tee-ell-dee-arr?” Sam asks with brightness and nonchalance that sounds forced, for the first time since James woke up. “Her husband, Captain Rogers, and my Dad served together in the Iraq War. The second one,” he clarifies with something that’s not quite cynicism. “Captain Rogers saved my Dad’s life and a bunch of others . . . and _died_ doing it. My Dad always kept in contact with Sarah and Steve, after that. Especially after he came home for keeps. When my, um, Mom died five years ago, Dad kinda fell into a bottle. Didn’t climb out until Sarah called him to tell him about Steve’s death, and . . . well. It wasn’t intentional, but another Rogers had died and managed to save my Dad in the process. He got sober. Moved us here from D.C. for a fresh start. Tried to be a good friend to Sarah, and make Captain Rogers’s and Steve’s deaths worth something _more_ than pointless tragedy. Make his own life _matter again, too_ , y’know?”

 

James nods and squeezes Sam’s hand, pulling it over his lap and adding his other hand to the mix. He likes the way Sam’s square, able palm feels between his own, and can’t even imagine what that means. “And did he? Make his life matter again?” he asks with warring hope and hesitance that’s _not_ just born of compassion and academic interest.

 

He has a very real obsession with whether or not life could _ever_ matter again when someone _good_ dies, while those who are . . . less so, keep ticking on. Wasting skin and space and oxygen, trying to make meaning where there never can be, and destroying themselves and others in the process.

 

“Sorta, I guess?” Sam shrugs listlessly, the shift of his shoulder against James’s thrilling and comforting simultaneously. “He was in the process of getting certification to be a trauma counselor. He wanted to, uh, work at the VA. Help other soldiers with PTSD find meaning and make their lives matter again. To themselves, first and foremost.”

 

“That’s . . . that’s noble,” James says, his tone small and wondering—too sincere and admiring to be blandly disingenuous, as it might have otherwise been. Sam sighs again.

 

“Yeah. He didn’t quite make it all the way, though. He, uh . . . his heart.” Sam pauses and from the corner of his eye, James can see Sam's other hand settle on his chest, over his _own_ heart. “It just gave out in the middle of an AA meeting seven weeks ago. He was probably putting Saint Peter and the angels through drills before he even realized something was wrong.” A third sigh, followed by a soft sniffle, then Sam shrugs once more.

 

“I . . . _Jesus_ , Sammy . . . I’m so sorry,” James breathes, his voice shocked into tininess and breathlessness as he looks over at his . . . new friend. That new friend looks back, his eyes wide and wet and anguished.

 

“It kinda helps that he . . . that he died on a _righteous_ path. On _his own_ path. I think . . . I think that’s a better death—and life—than most people get.” Even this sad iteration of Sam’s sun-rising smile is _gorgeous_. Melancholy, but gorgeous. It makes James’s heart stutter and flutter in a way it hasn’t since Steve died . . . _exactly_ four years and one day ago. “My Dad . . . was an _amazing_ man, and I miss him so much, sometimes I can’t even breathe like I should . . . but he lived a _good_ life and he was loved. He coulda done a lot worse in this world, y’know?”

 

“Yeah,” James agrees, his voice thick and choked, his gaze trapped by Sam’s grieving and lonely one. “I know.”

 

After a few charged and expectant seconds, he reaches up to brush his own thumb across Sam’s soft, dry cheek, then . . . then slowly across his lower lip. Sam’s eyes widen and they both shiver.

 

“James,” Sam breathes so softly, as if he would rather die than disturb James’s light, but tender touch.

 

“Sammy.” James is aware that one or both of them are leaning in closer to each other, super-slow, but _far_ too fast. James’s brain can’t even keep up, and his heart is doing double-duty making the same attempt.

 

“Seriously, you _don’t_ have to be gay with me if you don’t wanna, but . . . but _kissing_ doesn’t make you gay . . . right?” Sam asks, rushed and a bit desperate.

 

“Right. Uh. Yeah? I mean . . . I’ve kissed a _shit-ton_ of girls and it didn’t make me _straight_ , so,” James says bitterly, only having the epiphany the second after he says it. Then he’s blanching and blinking. “I mean— _Jesus_ , Sam, I—”

 

“Just _kiss me_ , if you're gonna, James. It doesn’t have to _mean_ anything. It can just _feel good_ , y’know? There's nothing wrong with needing to feel good, sometimes. Or whatever,” Sam says, with a thin veneer of callous matter-of-factness, covering the hope, optimism, and innocence which James finds so fascinating and alluring. Then his expression shifts through several raw emotions, before settling on wary ruefulness and disappointment. Impatience with himself that's old and deep and painful. “Never mind. Forget it. _Nothing_ has to mean anything _or_ feel good . . . it’s all just . . . pointless fucking bullshit, anyway.”

 

And Sam’s standing up as he tries to free his hand from James’s, his face half-turned away and profile stony. James opens his mouth to say _stop_ or _wait_ , or perhaps _please_ , but in the end, he doesn’t. He’s always been a man of words—full of Buchanan blarney and guff—but this time, he senses all his charm and communication-skills won’t be enough. So, James simply grasps Sam’s hand tighter and tugs— _pulls_ Sam back down to the couch, mostly on James’s left thigh. And when the younger man turns a wary-angry-wounded look on him and starts to ease off James’s lap, James reaches up to palm the back of Sam’s neck and guide his head down closer. Leans up at the same time, slow-fast, noting the way Sam’s eyes widen, even as his own close and their lips brush: tentative and off-center and with all the explosive impact of an H-bomb.

 

They each sit back almost instantly, as if burned, eyes as big and round as prize cabbages—Sam even slides off James’s lap and to the sofa with a soft huff. Their gazes skitter around for a few seconds, then lock together with an almost audible click.

 

Moments later, they’re both moving in again: James’s hand lifting to cup Sam’s cheek and _both_ of Sam’s hands to cup James’s. Then, there’s nothing but the tingle-burn press of their mouths, followed quickly by the slick-sweet-soft slide of parted lips. Then the wet, wondrous, electric glide of shyly teasing tongues that lap at a honey-rich sweetness which is probably all Sam.

 

And the huffs of shared air and mutually swallowed grunts . . . the push-pull, aggressive-submissive interplay between them that’s as fluid and natural as breathing . . . it's all exhilarating and divine madness. Yet James has never felt more in his right mind.

 

“You taste gross,” Sam declares breathlessly, when they both surface, panting for air, foreheads leaned together. James blushes and groans, remembering—rather, _not_ remembering—last night’s binge. The one he’d embarked on because _anything_ , even destroying himself liver-first, just like his father had, had seemed better than weathering another of his best friend’s death-iversaries _sober_.

 

“Uh . . . yeah. Sorry.” He leans back some, gaze averted and face flaming.

 

Sam snorts and snickers, darting in briefly to nuzzle James’s nose with his own. “Didn’t say stop kissing me, though, Barnes.”

 

“Oh. Right.” James smiles, goony and big, as he meets Sam’s sparkling eyes. Then smirks, slow and sexy: that infamous Buchanan Smirk that’d been parting fools from their money and right legs from left for _centuries_ , to hear Grandpa Jamie tell it. Sam’s resulting moan is hungry and marrow-churning, and James swears, urging Sam close once more. And for the next however-long, they’re in meltdown, again, hasty-feverish hands travelling to a _hell of a lot_ more places than just faces.

 

James is just trying to tug Sam back onto his lap—and Sam’s clearly willing to comply and help with the change of venue—when light, but firm footsteps, and the creaking of elderly, wooden stairs that accompanies them, sound steadily from the direction of the hall.

 

By the time Sarah Rogers enters her living room—still wearing her fuzzy, blue bathrobe and mauve nightgown, chuckling and apologizing for losing track of time on a phone call with her supervisor at the hospital—James and Sam are at opposite ends of the couch.

 

Both of them are sitting suspiciously stock-still, nervously wide-eyed, deeply blushing, and—at least in James’s case— _board-stiff_ under a strategically-placed cushion.

 

“Well! It lives!” Sarah exclaims brightly, marching into the living room to peck James on the top of the head. She’s a small, thin, pale woman with strong, regal features, whose only son had taken after her entirely in looks and temperament, the only difference being their exact shades of blond. “Good morning, James-sweetheart! Or should I say good afternoon?”

 

“Ha, heyya, Ma,” James mumbles, redder than ever, clutching his cushion, and not meeting Sarah’s bright-blue eyes or Sam’s bright-dark ones, even though they’re both looking at him. “Sorry about, ah, lettin’ myself in last night. I was, uh, kinda tipsy, again. . . .”

 

“To say the least, James Barnes!” Sarah chuckles once more, but it's worried. Fond, but worried. “Poor boy. But, considering what yesterday was . . . better out than in, I suppose. And at least you made it _here safely_ , so you won’t hear complaints or nagging from _me_. Well, not _much_.”

 

“Ah, thanks.” James manufactures a laugh that doesn’t sound kosher to him, but Sarah doesn’t seem to notice, as she’s already making her way over to Sam, for a top-of-the-head kiss and a little fussing, too. Sam weathers it almost bashfully, his gaze darting frequently to James, then away whenever he catches _James’s_ eyes darting right back.

 

It isn’t long before Sarah’s hustling and bustling them both off the sofa—with a beet-red James untucking his fancy-shiny, cobalt shirt and tugging it down _low_ —and toward the kitchen, shooing them like wayward chickens. The thought makes James smile, and miss the doting mother he’d always _wished_ he’d had . . . but hadn’t truly gotten until his best friend was two years dead and he, himself, had been kicked out of his family’s home.

 

As he and Sam drift to the arched entryway that lets into the hall, Sarah huffs and hurries back to the sofa to fluff and straighten disturbed cushions. James laughs a little as she absently hums something that’s probably Glenn Miller or one of the Gershwins—she’s a fiend for old-timey music, and Steve had inherited _that_ from her, as well—while he and Sam amble awkwardly out of the room, arms brushing and gazes still darting.

 

“I meant what I said, okay? It _doesn’t_ have to mean anything, if you don’t want it to,” Sam says very quietly, without inflection. “Not a damn thing. In fact, if you _want_ , it didn’t even _happen_.”

 

 _I don’t_ know _what I want!_ James opens his mouth to protest, but that’d be a lie, and they’d _both_ know it. Though, knowing a thing and accepting it are two vastly different beasts, and James isn’t sure he’s up to slaying either. Not the morning after falling— _diving_ —off the wagon _spectacularly,_ on the death-iversary of the boy he’d been in love with since he was five.

 

 _Is still in love with_ in a very real sense, if he’s honest with himself.

 

Admittedly, though, James doesn’t have much practice with that sort of honesty.

 

But when he looks over at Sam, studies that wholesome-handsome profile as they meander down the hall, such honesty and self-knowledge seems not so scary at all. Seems like a rather small price to pay for the hopeful, bright eyes that meet his.

 

James gasps sudden and soft. Feels his heart _keenly_ as it turns over with sluggish, but momentous effort, giving a stronger, more definite beat than it has in four years.

 

 _Alright, then,_ he tells it with resignation and . . . anticipation. _Al-goddamn-right._

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“Look . . . I know what I want, Sam, and . . . it’s got _nothin’_ to do with pretending. Not anymore,” he says with unadorned, creaking courage. It's the only kind he's ever had, much as he'd used to try to emulate Steve's simple, quiet, but somehow _elegant_ bravery. “I just . . . I don’t know if I’m _strong enough_ to go after the things I want and _own_ them. Live them. _Keep them_.”

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Sam’s brow furrows for a few seconds as they step into the sunny kitchen. James winces from the flare of cheerful, yellow light and by the time his battered eyes adjust, Sam is smiling up at him, cautiously pleased and ever-hopeful.

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“Yeah, well, like I said, Barnes . . . I’d like to be your friend, if nothing else. And friends means that I’m here for you no matter what. Whatever life you choose to live.” That smooth-low voice is firm and certain, even though the eyes above them are vulnerable and unsure, once more. “But if you ever wanna explore, um . . . _stuff_? Maybe . . . _be gay_ with someone who’s kinda in the same boat? That could be a journey we share, y’know? One we could take . . . _together_. Even if it's platonically. I'm a great wingman. And maybe we could do some sightseeing and compare notes.”

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Sam shrugs, hapless and adorable and _so open_. So earnest and _sweet_ , that James wants to kiss him again. Not just because his unruly, never-hungover-for-long dick is _super_ on-board with the idea—thought it is—but because he wants to touch that sweetness over and over. Wants to taste it on his tongue like pure nectar, then have the memory on his lips to tease and lick at later in remembrance.

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And he’s leaning in to do just that, one hand landing on Sam’s trim waist to slide around to his back, as Sam steps closer, up on his toes a bit to mitigate the three-ish inches of height difference between them. James can almost taste those perfect-plush, honey-sweet lips—can see Sam’s eyes fluttering shut as he makes a high, helpless noise in the back of his throat—when pointed and amused throat-clearing from behind them shatters the moment, and causes them both to jump apart.

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“Ah. _Ah_! Um,” Sam is saying, his huge, stricken eyes on Sarah as if the tiny, slight woman is a ravening Kodiak fresh out of hibernation. James, meanwhile, is squinting down at his fancy Chelsea boots, nodding and blushing and numb. Bracing himself for a fallout he can’t quite imagine. He can just make out Sarah’s floofy helmet of strawberry-blonde ‘do from the corner of his vision.

__

 

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“Well! You two take _all_ the fun out of playing Cupid, don’t you?” Sarah sighs dramatically, then brushes past and between them both, towards the stove in a waft of _Jean Nate_ After Bath and hairspray. “I had plans worked out! Scenarios! A cunning, _foolproof_ , romcom-worthy, long-term strategy! It even involved a romantic balloon ride over Central Park! But _you two_ knuckleheads just _refuse_ to let a nosy, old mother-hen have her little matchmaking day! Pssh! So selfish!”

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“ _Whaaah_?” Sam burbles after a shared glance with James and several startled beats have passed. James blushes and snorts and sneaks a peek at Sarah. She’s removing plates from the cupboard above the stove, which she can only barely reach. James doesn’t even move to help, as he usually does, with his extra foot of height. He merely looks back at Sam, who’s also gaping at Sarah and gray under his delicious complexion. He keeps trying to close his slightly kiss-swollen mouth, but it keeps dropping open again, resulting in the funniest, most adorable fish-face James has ever seen. His heart is doing _triple_ -duty, now, and his brain has thrown its hands up in exasperation and will probably be taking the rest of the morning off.

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So, running not on logic or instinct, but on pure, shining _hope_ and unfamiliar optimism, James starts laughing. Loud, long, and deep. And he keeps doing so until Sam and Sarah turn their gazes on him, haughty and amused, respectively. He wants to tell them what’s so funny and certainly _will_ , once he figures it out for himself. For the moment, though, he can only shrug and guffaw.

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And he’s still trying to stifle the last of the giggles when, five otherwise quiet and surprisingly comfortable minutes later, breakfast is dished up, everyone is seated, and Sarah leads them all in brief and humble Grace.

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After the soft _Amen_ , she lets go of Sam’s hand and James’s with a big, pleased smile that for once doesn't make James ache with all the things and people he misses, and can never get back. Sam, however . . . _doesn’t_ let go. Not at first. Not of _James’s_ hand. He merely links their fingers together, tight and hopeful, before finally releasing them with a small, satisfied smile after James squeezes back.

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Then he, too, smiles. And blushes. Down at his French toast, but still. He then picks up a cinnamon-dusted slice with fingers that tingle. And tremble. And _burn—_ like his entire _body_ does, but most especially his groin . . . and his _heart_ —with a long-missed sweetness that’s truer than anything he’s felt in forever.

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And, so, the morning passes: with smiles that linger long after breakfast is but a pleasant memory, and the glimmering promise of even brighter mornings and better breakfasts waiting just down the road.

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END

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**Author's Note:**

> Scream at me in comments, or on [Tumblr](beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com), for killing off Steve!


End file.
